


Appetite for Reconstruction

by NienteZero



Category: Leverage, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: BACK ON MY BULLSHIT, Food, Gen, alternate universe where we will not be doing civil war or any ensuing whatever, eliot's cooking, i make myself hungry i tell you what
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-12
Updated: 2020-11-02
Packaged: 2021-01-29 09:55:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 9,908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21408277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NienteZero/pseuds/NienteZero
Summary: Having the Winter Soldier washing dishes in the back of the pub is one thing. Having the Winter Soldier eat like crap? Not acceptable.
Relationships: background leverage ot3
Comments: 103
Kudos: 386





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [skymning](https://archiveofourown.org/users/skymning/gifts), [51PegasiB](https://archiveofourown.org/users/51PegasiB/gifts).

> Prompted by skymning, who has marvelous ideas. There will be a second chapter.

How James Buchanan Barnes, aka the Winter Soldier, ended up working the dish pit at Hardison's brew pub was something of a mystery. On a scale of surprising things, Eliot was more surprised by Barnes showing up one day looking like a kicked dog and asking for help than he was that time SHIELD turned out to be HYDRA (No, really, a shadowy organization beholden to very few authorities was secretly fascistic? Where the hell was the secret?) and slightly less surprised than when his old military buddy Rhodes had shown up flying around in one of Stark's fancy suits.

The point was, Barnes was a good man for washing dishes. It hadn't been hard to slot him into the kitchen; one of the kids on dish was ready for promotion to the line anyway. The Brewpub staff weren't inclined to ask questions about quiet people who showed up in worn out clothes needing jobs and maybe a cot in a back room.

If laying low and doing tedious work while he thought real hard about who he used to be, who he was now, and who he wanted to be was what Barnes needed, Leverage, International could give him that space.

Though it was hard as hell to keep Hardison from bothering the man about his arm. And also annoying to have to listen to Hardison make horny noises about the "murder strut," And Parker wasn't much better. But Eliot had to admit, Parker's habit of pestering people had helped him relax and trust that other people could be in his space without wanting to hurt him. So he didn't try too hard to keep Parker from showing up in the dish pit armed with her poky finger and a lot of personal questions.

Eliot tried to give Barnes his space. Hardison had danced around the question early in Barnes's stay. Wouldn't it be good for Barnes to have someone to talk to who could at least understand some of what he'd experienced? But Barnes no doubt knew everything there was to know about Eliot, and if he wanted to talk, he could make the first move. He didn't need Eliot pushing him.

But there was one thing that drove Eliot crazy. The damn meal replacement powder. Barnes was being paid overtime for his shifts on dishes - Eliot had ended up promoting both the former dish kids into the kitchen, because Barnes always wanted to work. He had a roof over his head in a storage room Eliot cleared out for him, and he was welcome to eat off the menu like the rest of he staff did, or use the kitchen when the brewpub was closed. And there was always family meal before dinner service.

But did Barnes eat with the rest of them? No. He didn't so much as microwave frozen dinners. Just bought these giant tubs of Soylent powder and mixed them straight up with water. 

Imagine being surrounded by so much good food and eating grotesquely named nerd fuel instead.

One evening just after closing, Eliot called Barnes back into the kitchen.

"Hey, c'mere man, taste something for me?"

Eliot's sous chef was working on a new dish that he wanted to put on the menu soon.

Barnes walked into the kitchen, that posture that made him look small even though he was buff as hell. 

'What is it?" he asked.

"Constanza's working on a cold chicken, leek and pancetta pie. Render the pancetta down, caramelize the leeks in it, brown the chicken, the whole thing's in a rough puff shell with a demi-glace gravy binding the filling. Here, have a bite? Still workin on the food costs, but the pancetta's worth it, I think."

He handed Barnes a plate with a slice of savory pie and a fork. 

Barnes took a mouthful and chewed. 

"It's good," he said.

"You know, you're welcome to eat with the rest of us before service, there's always plenty," Eliot said.

"Thanks," Barnes said, "but I don't need to. I get enough to eat."

"That ain't food," Eliot said, keeping an easy smile on his face, "that's fuel."

"Am I not working fast enough? I can do better," Barnes said softly. His long hair fell in front of his eyes, and his mouth was turned down anxiously.

Fuck, right. Barnes was still somewhere, lost and trying to find his way back, but basically institutionalized through and through. Still facing the immense idea that no one was telling him what to do next.

"Hey, no," Eliot said. He took the plate out of Barnes's hand and set it down on a counter. 

"You're not in trouble. You can keep drinking those damn shakes the rest of your life if that's what you want. But food ain't just fuel, and you're not just somethin' that has to keep fueled up and do a job."

Barnes shrugged as if he had no response to that.

"Okay, let's start with something simple," Eliot said, tying on an apron, "Pancakes."


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eliot drags Bucky into the kitchen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I said there’d be another chapter, but it’s getting long so I’m giving you this one now, and at least one more to come.

(In another universe, Bucky Barnes had gone a solitary route on his path to healing, and that had been the catalyst of disaster. When a threat came to earth, its heroes were in disarray and at each other's throats.  
  
In this universe things were tough and complicated. But Barnes turning himself over to the UN after a year spent washing dishes and recovering his sense of self was the tipping point for the war with Thanos to go differently.)  
  
It was a regular Wednesday evening in the brewpub when Eliot heard a commotion in the dining room.  
  
Eliot wiped his hands on his apron and went to see what the fuss was about. The brewpub's patrons were usually civilized. He pushed open the door from the kitchen and saw what had them riled up.  
  
James Barnes was standing in the middle of the dining room, surrounded by patrons looking to get autographs and take selfies with him. He looked a lot different from when he'd shown up at the brewpub the first time. His posture was straight and confident, broad shoulders no longer hunched over protectively. He was wearing motorcycle leathers, and his hair was pulled back into a pony tail.  
  
"All right, all right, you know better than this," Eliot said loudly enough to get the attention of the patrons, "leave the man alone."  
  
The crowd dispersed back to the bar and tables, casting sheepish looks at the chef.  
  
Barnes strode across the room, holding his hand out. Eliot gripped the offered hand firmly, pulling Barnes in for a hug and back slap.  
  
"Just passing through, or got time to catch up?" Eliot said.  
  
Barnes's mouth twitched into an easy, open smile.  
  
"I've got all the time in the world, right now," he said, "thought I'd come by and say, well, thanks for everything."  
  
Eliot smiled back.  
  
"Nothin' to thank us for, you pulled your weight in dishes, man. Come on through to the back, and let me grab you a beer."  
  
Eliot led Barnes through the double doors leading to Leverage's office and upstairs to the kitchen and living room.  
  
Barnes set his helmet and bags down and looked around the warm, modern space. The bare brick walls were familiar and comforting from the time he'd spent in the restaurant kitchen during his recovery.  
  
Eliot took the opportunity to really look the other man over, look at his face. Sure, he'd just been involved in a nasty, brutal war. But he looked like he was hanging together pretty well. Like he'd settled in his skin and maybe come to find a place for himself in the world.  
  
"You look good," he said, "being an Avenger suits you better than dish bitch."  
  
Barnes took his jacket off, revealing just how much he'd bulked up since his low point. Not to mention the shiny new black and gold prosthetic arm he sported now. Eliot had kept up with the news and worried when Barnes's original prosthetic had been blown off in an early skirmish with Thanos's army, but the new model looked lighter and sleeker, better in balance with him. It looked like something that could be used to create and nurture, not just the embodiment of the fist of Hydra, all crushing and killing.  
  
Either way, if Eliot had ever thought he could go toe to toe with Barnes when the man was hiding out in Eliot's kitchen, this version would hand him his ass, no question. Might be fun to spar sometime, though.  
  
Eliot grabbed two beers from the fridge and handed one to Barnes. Barnes popped the lid off with his metal thumb and a smirk.  
  
"Nice trick," Eliot said, opening his beer on the edge of the countertop. He raised the bottle in a toast.  
  
"So you done saving the world for now?" Eliot asked.  
  
"Hope so," Barnes said. He shrugged, a small gesture, "Intel isn't my job on the team, but I'm told I get a vacation. Steve suggested a road trip."  
  
"Didn't bring him along for the ride?" Eliot asked.  
  
"Needed a break from the team," Barnes said, peeling at the label of his beer bottle, "You know how it is when the war's over. Hard to settle in your own skin."  
  
"Ain't a lot of wars I've been in that have ended," Eliot said, "But yeah, I know what you mean."  
  
Barnes nodded, his eyes dark with clouded emotions.  
  
"Stevie, he's been waiting on the war to be over a long time, and now he's got to figure out a peace time life. But he was under ice the whole Cold War."  
  
"You lived through it all," Eliot said, "All the ways it wasn't cold at all."  
  
"They pointed me at targets, but my hands - I brought war into all kinds of places where people were just trying to live their lives. I don't see that there's peacetime waiting for me," Barnes said, "I don't know that I'm built for peace any more. After what I've been, after what I've done."  
  
Eliot took a long pull of his beer.  
  
"I ain't saying it's easy. I'm still figuring shit out. Gotta reconcile who you've been with what there could be ahead of you."  
  
Barnes smiled, a dry thing, "I have a lot of material to work with."  
  
He finished his beer, and Eliot let the silence rest. They'd hit a pretty deep nerve, but he figured he'd earned Barnes's trust, and he'd know more than Captain America or any shiny-ass Avenger what it was like to live with being a monster. After all, Eliot had had a choice.

“Did you eat yet?” Eliot said.

Barnes shrugged. His lips were tilted in a smirk. “Got a saddle bag full of protein bars, I’m doing fine.”

Eliot rubbed his forehead. Why was he blessed with idiots who had no idea what actual food was?

“You know what I think of that,” he growled, “get your ass in the kitchen with me and we’ll fix dinner. Hardison and Parker are out freeclimbing right now, they’re going to come back starving. You better be planning on staying long enough for dinner.”

“I’d like to stick around a few days, if you’ll have me,” Barnes said. He looked hesitant, unsure of his welcome.

“Hey man, you’re family now,” Eliot said, “you scrubbed enough pans you never need to ask, you got a place to call home.”

Barnes ducked his head, and his “thanks” was a low mumble that had an odd tremor to it, but as Eliot still found sentimental conversations itchy, he let it go.

Barnes followed Eliot into the kitchen.

“What’re you cooking?” he asked.

“What are _we_ cooking, you mean,” Eliot said, opening the fridge and surveying the ingredients with a quick sweep of his eyes. He leaned in and grabbed a large block of cheese wrapped in fine cotton fabric.

Eliot broke a piece of the cheese off and handed it to Barnes.

“Taste that, tell me what you think.”

Barnes sniffed at the cheese and then took a thoughtful bite. His eyes widened. It was firm and slightly bouncy, but not hard with age, and had a complex nutty flavor that wasn’t sharp, but wasn’t bland at all.

“I- why does this taste like something I had before?”

“Protein bars,” Eliot rolled his eyes. “Food is memory, man. A time, a place.”

“So what place is this?” Barnes said, waving the piece of cheese he was still holding, “because seems to me it ain’t American cheese.”

“I get this from a friend of a friend, not strictly through official channels. There’s a farmer who runs a trade organization Tbilisi, she’s got connections with a small dairy just outside the city, gets me raw milk cheeses like this one.”

Barnes tilted his head thoughtfully. Contraband cheese. That was an exciting departure from fighting intergalactic war criminals. He popped the last of the piece of cheese into his mouth.

Eliot was pulling more ingredients out of the fridge and cupboards. He tossed a large block of butter to Barnes.

“Cut that into one inch cubes,” he said.

Barnes pulled a wickedly serrated hunting knife from a holster somewhere on his person, and wiped the blade down on his pants leg.

“Use a goddamn chef’s knife,” Eliot said, glowering, “And a cutting board.”

Barnes laughed and put the hunting knife away. Eliot hadn’t heard Barnes laugh before. Sounded rusty, but good.

“Yeah, you’re going to be as much of a pain in my ass in the kitchen as Alec,” Eliot grumbled.

“I do my best,” Barnes said. He’d chosen a good sized chef’s knife and was working relatively skillfully at breaking down the block of butter, though.

Eliot weighed flour out in a kitchen scale. He gestured to Barnes' metal arm.

"That run hot?" he asked.

"Only if I'm tearing open spacecraft, gets a bit over warm with that kind of exertion. Otherwise, it's pretty cool to the touch," Barnes said, holding out his hand for Eliot to touch. He looked curious, but not offended by the question.

"Good, cause we're making a rough puff and I'd hate to have to make you stick your hand in the freezer. Gotta have cold hands for pastry. But we are puttin' a glove on that, unless you want a test drive of what flour up between those plates does."

Barnes shrugged, "It's over-engineered to hell and back. Princess Shuri's good. But I don't want to have to tell her I broke it, either."

Barnes turned out to have the patience and, with some coaching, delicate touch needed to work up pastry without making it tough. They didn't talk much during the process. Just Eliot's instructions and warnings to go gentle on the rolling and folding to incorporate the butter that'd give the pastry its crucial flakiness.

Barnes watched while Eliot put together little folded up packages of pastry with piles of grated cheese in the middle. He tried his hand at it as Eliot smirked over his shoulder. His bundles didn't look as good as Eliot's, but they were passable. He watched cautiously as Eliot slid them into the hot oven.

"Felt good, didn't it?" Eliot said, as Barnes took the glove off his metal hand and washed his hands at the sink. "Feels nice to make something, right?"

Barnes didn't turn around to look at Eliot when he replied. His shoulders tightened.

"Guess it's been a long time since I did anything good with my hands."

He shook his head and turned around, lips falling back into an easy, sardonic smile.

"Still don't know if it's worth all the time, though, you cook, you eat, you just have to do it all again."

Eliot snorted.

"So that crap you eat gets the job done? Like you'd just spray WD-40 on your rifle before you put it away? No, you'd strip her down, clean every piece, make sure everything was workin' right, and put her away properly. Your rifle's not worth more than you are, you're worth taking time on, doin' things better than just getting by."  
  
Barnes shook his head, face blank. "Not sure anything's worth this amount of dishes," he said eventually, moving to pick up the marble pastry board and rolling pin.  
  
Eliot let Barnes get on with cleanup in silence. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dinner time

Before the pastries were ready to come out of the oven the clamor of Hardison and Parker arriving home sounded at the door. Eliot shot a look to Barnes. Almost certainly the man had no idea what he was in for.

“Hey! Look who’s here,” Eliot said sharply over the chaos of Hardison and Parker talking about their day as they came through the door. He waved his chef’s knife in the direction of Barnes, and went back to slicing up vegetables for salad.

“Heeey, man!” Hardison said. He was moving in to shake Barnes’s hand but Hurricane Parker was sweeping past him and had climbed the fearsome Winter Soldier like a tree. Barnes looked stunned, and like he had no idea what he was supposed to be doing.

Eliot grinned. Your first welcome home from Parker was a memorable thing. She didn’t seem like the kind who’d go in for big displays, but go away for long enough and her hugs were legendary.

Hardison waited for Parker to let go of Barnes and stepped in for a more restrained hug/manly shoulder pat routine.

“Good to see you,” he said, “you gave us some sleepless nights out there saving the universe.”

“Presents?” Parker said, her hand dipping into one of Barnes’s pockets.

“Yes, I brought you presents, no they’re not in my pockets” Barnes said, looking to Eliot for help.

Eliot shrugged with a sly twinkle in his eyes. Might do Barnes good to be on the receiving end of some of Parker’s handsy attention. There wasn't much gentle touch (even Parker level gentle) on the battlefield.

Hardison said, “Mama, give James a little space.”

“I have a present for you too,” Barnes said, gently pushing Parker away from her attempts to raid all his pockets.

“You didn’t have to bring us stuff,” Hardison said, like the mature adult he totally was. But he couldn’t keep from looking like a kid on Christmas morning.

Barnes pulled three small packages out of one of his bags, and tossed one each to Parker, Hardison, and Eliot. Eliot set his aside while he finished the salad, eye on the oven timer. Parker and Hardison had no such restraint.

“Widow’s bite! Widow’s bite!” Parker said, waving a small black object around. Hardison stepped back from her cautiously.

“That’s great, baby, we’re all very excited for a new taser, but no- no testing it on any of us,” he said.

Parker pouted briefly, but then she was busy inspecting her new toy.

“Oh, you beautiful thing,” Hardison said reverently, opening a box containing a special edition Stark Watch, never released to the public, “come to daddy.”

He looked up from the present at Barnes.

“This is amazing. You really didn’t have to, you know that?”

Parker shot a knowing glance at Barnes. She approved of stolen goods as presents.

Eliot tidied his chopping board and knife then carefully unwrapped his present. It was a matte black knife, maybe four inches long including the handle, with a curved blade that tucked into the handle. The metal wasn’t steel, it wasn’t anything he’d held before. It was a sweet, wicked little piece of equipment, the hinge between the blade and handle barely visible, the whole thing folding down to a flat oval almost so black it looked like an absence of matter. He had a feeling it was Wakandan in make.

“Thanks man,” he said, feeling like that was inadequate. The thing was, knives had contexts, and you could kill with this knife, but that’s not what it was made for. The shape of the blade, the way it fit in his hand, it was perfect for harvesting fresh herbs from his rooftop garden.

Eliot served up the pastries hot from the oven on a platter and the salad in a huge wooden bowl. Parker set the table and opened wine, while Hardison got glasses and plates down and poured himself a glass of orange soda.

Barnes watched Eliot glower Parker and Hardison into taking decent sized helpings of the salad. He helped himself to a generous amount of the fresh green leaves and herbs as Eliot handed around the platter of cheese pastries.

"This is good, what is it?" Parker said around a mouthful of hot cheese.

"Khachapuri," Eliot said. "Georgian, but I had 'em all over the place in Russia."

The name rang a faint bell for Barnes, but biting into one of the pastries was what brought back a flood of not precisely memory, but the sensation of memory. The sensation of having known this before. Warmth. Comfort when he might not have expected to have it. Savory and rich. 

Barnes glanced uneasily at Eliot. What the fuck? Was Eliot messing with him? How'd he pick something that Barnes didn't even know he remembered?

He took another bite of the khachapuri. It was so good, and he had been the one to make the flaky, crispy pastry that wrapped around the melting cheese. The unease settled into curiosity. It was hard to come back from what he'd been through without gaining a habit of introspection; if the Avenger's official heavily-qualified therapists had taught Barnes one thing it was to sit with his emotions and figure out what they were instead of pushing them down and hiding from them.

But he could think about it more later, because right now he had to snap his hand out and grab Parker by the wrist before she could hit the unsuspecting Hardison with the Widow's Bite.

"No tasing at the dinner table," Barnes said, although not very sternly. Parker tried to wrestle out of his grip, but it didn't take the metal hand for Barnes to be able to hold her firmly. 

Hardison was protesting volubly about the attempted assault with hand gestures that threatened to spill orange soda everywhere, and Parker was weighing in with arguments in favor of being allowed to tase people for fun.

"Settle down!" Eliot snapped loudly enough to cut through the general noise, "Parker, behave or I'll take that away. Hardison, get over it already."

Parker and Hardison grumbled but subsided.

"We can test it out later," Barnes promised, "I'm used to it."

"Man, you cannot keep saying tragic things like that," Hardison said.

"You can take Parker lookin' for muggers or something and tase someone who deserves it," Eliot said, adding pointedly, "After dinner."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have seen on the internet many articles and recipes about khachapuri and none of them are anything like what is described in this story. They appear to have a yeasted dough shaped into an oval and often feature an egg baked on top. However, the flaky-pastried cheese parcel in which the whole of the cheese filling is enclosed is based on nostalgic descriptions from someone who ate them as street food in Russia. I guess like pizza there are more than one variations of this comforting and cheesy dish. I would eat any and all kinds of khachapuri anyone wants to feed to me.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Parker and James go out to play!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: there is mention of rape in this chapter, it's brief, but if you want to skip and wait for the next chapter there's no eating food and learning and growing in this one. It's just an interlude of Parker and Bucky being nasty for good reasons.

While Parker was getting her gear sorted to go out and play with her new toy, Eliot pulled Barnes aside with a grim look on his face. Hardison had already settled down to an evening of video gaming, complete with headphones.

Barnes said, "We don't have to do this if you don't like it."

Eliot rolled his eyes, "Seem to recall I suggested it," he said, "I just wanted to talk to you before you head out."

"I'll keep Parker safe," Barnes said seriously.

Eliot laughed, then put his hand on Barnes's shoulder.

"I ain't worried about that. Parker can take care of herself. Oh man, you thought I was gonna give you that talk? Watch your back if anything happens to my girl? How long d'you live with us last year? Thought you'd know better than that."

"Then what?" Barnes said.

"Just wanted to tell you just because Parker says jump don't mean you have to say how high. You can tell her no if there's somethin' you don't feel like doing. She's not always good at knowing what other people's limits are."

"I'm the Winter Soldier," Barnes said, narrowing his eyes menacingly.

"Yeah and also you're James Barnes, private citizen, and you might not be in the mood to jump off the Wells Fargo tower tonight," Eliot shrugged, "You've had enough people tellin' you what to do, you get to say no."

"Oh," Barnes said. He didn't seem to know how to react. But Eliot was moving on.

"One other thing - you gave her that Widow's Bite, you get to make sure she don't use it on anyone who doesn't deserve it. No running around tasing security guards just because she sees something shiny."

This Eliot did pronounce with the full force of his "or else" glare.

"Avoid the jewelry district then," Barnes said dryly, with a sloppy salute.

Barnes grabbed his saddle bags and hit the guest room to change into something more suited for prowling around at night than leather biker pants. When he emerged to meet up with Parker in the open living space they were dressed almost identically in black tactical pants, and close-fitting lightweight black turtlenecks.

Hardison paused his game long enough to lean over the back of the couch and whistle appreciatively.

"Rocking the tactlenecks there," he said, to Barnes's evident confusion and a dismissive wave from Parker, who was in business mode.

"James, this harness should fit you," Parker said, handing Barnes a bundle of black webbing.

"Told you," Eliot said, "you think you're just gonna run around and stop a few petty thefts, she's gonna have you up the side of a building before you can say 'boo.'"

"Sounds like fun," Barnes said, breaking into a rare smile as he clipped himself into Parker's spare equipment.

They slipped out of the back door of the Brewpub.

"Race you to the art museum, the street is lava!" Parker said.

Barnes didn't have time to argue about the dubious destination before Parker was off, scrambling up a fire escape on a nearby building. The race should have been a foregone conclusion, what with Barnes being on the enhanced end of things, but Parker knew the area like the back of her hand. And Barnes wasn't interested in going into that cold, competitive mode he knew he could. Like Eliot said, he didn't have to do things he didn't want to. 

Parker was fast and light footed and moved with a dancer's grace. Barnes was close on her tail, over rooftops and trees, jumping alleys and swinging one handed from windowsills. The museum was not far from the pub, less than ten minutes at the pace they were making.

Parker let out a joyous whoop as she jumped the fence to the museum grounds a split second before Barnes did. She lay down on the grass like she was making a snow angel.

"That was fun," she said, "now we're out of eavesdropping range from the pub, what are we going to do tonight? I'm not lurking around alleys waiting for petty crime. I've got a list of people who I'd love to see pee their pants."

Barnes flopped down beside her and looked at her through narrowed eyes.

"Does Eliot know you lured me out on false pretenses?" he said.

Parker snorted, "If he doesn't know then he needs to pay more attention. Anyway, I'm the mastermind, I make the plans. And trust me, I've got good reasons why these guys should get a visit from the spooky Winter Soldier." 

Barnes contemplated "no", for a moment. But actually, the mission did seem to meet satisfactory parameters both personally and according to Eliot's instructions. If Parker said she had good reasons, she did.

"Let's go then," he said, standing and stretching, rolling his shoulders and letting menace creep into the lines of his stance.

"Great," Parker said, "first guy always tells his wife he's got committee meetings til late on Wednesdays, but I know the motel where he'll be waiting for his girlfriend. I already cleared the girlfriend out for the night." 

Barnes didn't ask more about that, he assumed the girlfriend had been handled in a discreet way. He followed Parker at a light jog to an area over by the university where the city got less chic and more shabby.

"He gets the same room every Wednesday. No operational security," Parker said judgmentally.

She pointed up to the third floor. The rooms had narrow balconies with sliding doors opening onto them.

"Wanna go inside route or outside?"

"Outside," Barnes said. In spite of what Eliot said about climbing, it bothered him a lot less than sliding back into the cold war persona who could be invisible in crowded places.

Three floors up was barely a climb. They perched on the balcony to the sides of the glass door, dark figures flat against the building. Parker leaned around to check where the target was in the room, and signalled to Barnes to open the door.

It was theoretically locked but he was the Winter Soldier, so practically speaking opening the door was as easy as sliding a hot knife through butter. Just a touch more pressure than if it hadn't been locked; it slid open silently under his practiced hand.

He stepped into the room, Parker at his side. This was the looming portion of the event. The target was sitting on the bed with his back to them, engrossed in typing on his phone, no doubt trying to find out what the delay was in his date's arrival.

Parker held her hand up for Barnes to hold in position as she moved forward with a nasty smile on her face. She was on top of the target and he still hadn't noticed. Barnes marveled at how unobservant civilians could be. Parker's hand darted out and the arc of electricity from the widow's bite sizzled between her and the target. He made a strangled gasping sound as he twitched and then slid from the bed to the floor. 

"Nice!" Parker said, beckoning to Barnes. 

"He should wake up pretty quickly right? Come loom."

Barnes was oddly touched by the way Parker treated the very real threat of danger from him, that was now a fundamental part of who he was, as just another tool in her mastermind box. She didn't have any fear of him for herself. She should, but she didn't. He wondered how long it'd taken Spencer to get used to being treated like that, like with utmost certainty he wouldn't turn and hurt his team.

He loomed over the man on the floor, registering the moment the man came out of his stunned state to see him there. Parker was lurking out of view.

"What... why?" the man stammered, sliding himself up to lean back against the bed, cringing away from Barnes.

Barnes smiled.

The terror on the man's face grew.

Parker spoke.

"Don't kill him," she said coldly.

The man let out an ugly little shriek, and Barnes loomed harder, his smile widening and his eyes narrowing, metal hand making a loose fist as he leaned forward.

"Are you sure?" he asked,

"Too much trouble," Parker said.

"I'm good with bodies," Barnes said.

He was curious to find out what the target had done to earn Parker's wrath. A vicious part of him was enjoying this by-play with her, and the stench of terror that was rising from the man. This was a part of him he kept under lock most of the time for very good reasons, but it was like breathing easily to just be the worst of him. And probably for a good cause.

"Please, no- do you want money, I have lots of money?" the target said.

He looked like he did. Middle aged, prosperous white guy with an expensive haircut and a stupidly expensive watch.

"We're not here for money," Parker said, "you have nothing to bargain with. We're here because you were asking for this."

She moved fast enough that Barnes would have had trouble stopping her if he'd wanted to, zapping the man with the bite again. By the time the man shook off the shock and was back to sensibility, Parker was laughing.

"If you're going to hang around in motel rooms, it must mean you want what's coming to you."

"No, I... please, don't hurt me," the target begged.

"I hear you saying no, but is that what you mean, lying there like that?" Parker asked.

Her voice suddenly turned serious, "You told a teenage girl that she must have provoked a fully grown man into having sex with her. That was rape, and you told her she'd brought it on herself. That man's walking around free because of you. He's not the only one, he's just the latest one. You're a monster. What do you think you deserve now? This is my courtroom, and I'm the Judge here."

"Please, please, don't-"

Barnes knelt down to crouch next to the pathetic figure. He rested his metal hand gently around the man's throat and looked up at Parker. He didn't think she actually meant to kill this bastard, but if she did, he wasn't sure he'd say no.

"You don't want us to hurt you more?" Parker asked.

"No, please! I'll do anything,"

"You'll retire. And apologize. And I think a fifty thousand dollar public donation to RAINN."

"I don't... you can't ask me to retire," the man gasped indignantly.

Barnes closed his hand slightly.

"All right, all right. I'll do it, I promise I'll do it," the target squeaked.

Parker nodded to Barnes and he let go and stood up in a fluid motion. Parker was already on the balcony and headed to the street when he got there. He slid the balcony door closed behind him gently. The judge, or now ex-judge he supposed, could pay for the repair of the lock.

Parker was bouncing on the balls of her feet, "All right! That was fun!"

She looked at Barnes.

"Wait, was that too much? That was too much, wasn't it? I get things wrong sometimes."

"No," Barnes said, "no. I trust you. I trusted you."

"But you would have killed him if I said to," Parker said, her face twisting up sadly, "Eliot said to be careful, and I wasn't careful."

"I might have. Might not have. Would have been my choice. I trust you. You didn't ask me to," Barnes said. He tentatively reached out and pulled Parker into a sideways hug. The tension melted out of her.

"Who's next," Barnes said.

Parker pulled away from the hug and looked up at him, "You want to go again?" she asked.

"Night's young," Barnes said, "let's scare some creeps."


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two silent men talk about feelings which goes very well

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Like everyone, I've been having a lot of feelings and generally being in a rough place for a while. I hope that everyone's holding up okay and that your friends and families are well and safe. I'd like to say thank you to everyone who has been reading and adding kudos and comments! I notice, and it has been a really sweet part of my day to hear from you. Shout out to shatterthefragments and Processpending who have both left a lot of lovely, thoughtful, and encouraging comments lately!

It was the afternoon of the next day when Eliot finally ran across Barnes on his own again. Not that Eliot was in a hurry, but he had a feeling Barnes might have a few questions for him. Eliot hadn't really had a plan when he picked what to cook for dinner with Barnes the night before, but he had a few notions, and he had an idea Barnes had picked up on that.

Sometimes cooking worked from instinct. Sometimes food connected with memory in a way that other sensory inputs couldn't. The smell, the taste, the texture, it all lived in the body and soul in a way that words and images didn't.

Eliot slipped up to his roof garden after the lunch rush to spend some time trimming and weeding and checking in on each of the plants. The little knife that Barnes gave him was in his pocket ready to gather fresh parsley and cilantro to make arroz verde with dinner.

Not many people ever managed to startle Eliot Spencer, but it wasn't until he'd been up on the roof for five minutes puttering among the tomatoes that he noticed Barnes sitting quiet and completely still against the ventilation stack for the brewery.

"Dammit, Hardison!" Eliot said under his breath, almost reflexively. He'd said he didn't like the amount of white noise and cover that thing gave, but no, Hardison assured him that his security was impenetrable. Eliot considered giving Barnes his space. But he had a sneaking suspicion that Barnes had been waiting up here for him. He took off his gardening gloves and went over to sit beside Barnes.

Barnes had picked the part of the roof with the best sight lines and the easiest drop to the street if he decided to run. You could take the boy out of the army, but you couldn't take the sniper out of the boy. Eliot appreciated that. Sometimes it was difficult being around people who didn't instinctively watch their own backs that way. (Alec never did, nor did the staff of the pub. Parker always did. It gave him ease knowing she had that covered, too.)

"Late lunch?" Eliot said, nodding toward the khachapuri wrapped in a paper towel that Barnes had in his hands. It looked like he'd heated it in the microwave, which was a crime, but not on the scale of mass murder or anything, so Eliot let it be.

Barnes took a bite, the first movement he'd made since Eliot had been on the rooftop.

"I remember this," he said softly.

"Thought you might," Eliot replied.

He felt Barnes's eyes on him, sharp, cautious, curious.

"How?" Barnes said, then, "no, actually, why?"

"You can ask more'n one question," Eliot said wryly, "I'll try to answer 'em both."

Eliot twirled the little garden knife in his hands, the weight perfect for little flips and tosses in the air, while he thought about how to answer.

"How is ... I know when you were active. I know where you were active. Sorry, everyone does, everyone who wants to know those things. Hardison did some quick work to try to get your records off the web soon as the whole SHIELD thing went down, but trying to keep something offline is like catching lightning in a bottle."

Barnes nodded.

"I'm not sure they're my secrets to keep, anyway," he said, "people deserve to know what I did."

Eliot's mouth twitched into a frown. Barnes was definitely going to drive him crazy with the tragic statements.

"Whatever, man. Hardison's always going to try to protect you from that, so deal with it. But that doesn't answer your questions. There's a pattern of use when the Russians had you, or you were loaned out to them. Infiltration, shadowing, medium-term surveillance. Lot of it in or around Moscow."

Barnes made a non-commital noise. He'd never really said how much he remembered of life under Hydra's control.

"Jobs like that, you can't do it like an automaton, not like at the end when Hydra had you decked out like a serial killer. You gotta be able to fit in. Blend. Make decisions for yourself. Not about the big stuff, that's your handlers, but the little stuff that makes you look like a person, not a machine."

Eliot left that statement hanging in the air, left silence for Barnes to talk or not talk.

Barnes ate some more of the khachapuri. Eliot waited. Sure, he promised to answer Barnes's questions, and he would, well, he was. But sometimes a person needed space to talk and they didn't get if you just jawed on the whole time.

"People see me- the other Avengers, the newspapers, they see me like that last time in DC. The mask, the muzzle. The unstoppable force."

Barnes frowned, "Of course I don't blame 'em. But that was supposed to be when HYDRA won. That was supposed to show how they were going to run things, me as the fist, their enforcer. If I'd spent a half a century walking round like that, I wouldn't have been what I was. What they made me. They made me so much worse than what other people see. They made me to kill without being seen, and most of the time that's exactly what I did."

He looked down at the half-eaten pastry in his hands.

"Don't know why I'm telling you this," he said, a wry half-smile twisting his mouth, "I just wanted to know why."

"Why'd I make you remember?" Eliot said, "take you back to that time?"

Barnes nodded.

"I've always figured you know bout as much about my past as I do about yours," Eliot said, "and that's more than anyone else knows, even Alec and Parker."

"You were someone I had full briefing on," Barnes said, "though HYDRA lost track of you the last few years."

"You know what I was like," Eliot said, "ain't nothing you've done I haven't done as bad, and by my own choices."

Barnes made a quizzical noise at that. Eliot paused, waited to see what he had to say.

"The Army made me a killer before HYDRA ever did," Barnes said, "I seem to recall some things in your file, some things the government told you to do."

Eliot shrugged, "I won't say there weren't reasons I ended up where I was, but I did things, I gotta take responsibility for them. Point is, even during that, even at the worst times, there are memories, things that are good, things that belong to just me, ain't no one can take them away or dirty them up on me. You can't run away from your past, you gotta live with it, but that means you get to have the little bits of good."

He sighed and ran his hands through his hair, not looking at Barnes. The silence sat between them a while.

"Maybe I overstepped, it ain't my place."

He stood up before Barnes could say anything more, and headed back down the stairs from the roof. Not that he didn't want to hear what Barnes had to say, but maybe all that time when he'd avoided talking to Barnes about the past, it hadn't just been for Barnes's sake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These fuckers won't finish the damn conversation.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys continue to brood separately about their dark pasts. The brewpub has a surprise guest and Parker has an interesting conversation. Hardison is stressed out.

Technically speaking, Bucky no longer had a CO.

The Avengers had a command structure; Steve and Tony were in charge. But when he was out on his own like this, Bucky was in charge of himself.

But Spencer had been his boss at the Brewpub and it still felt like he had authority. Even though Spencer was not any kind of commanding officer to Parker and Hardison. Parker was in charge of strategy. Hardison clearly ran infosec and real estate. Spencer was only ever top dog when it came to physical risk and protecting the other two. 

If Bucky concentrated, he could feel like he hadn't somehow screwed up when Spencer made his sort of apology for overstepping the mark, and then took off without saying anything else. Handlers didn't apologize, and if they did, it was a mindfuck and something very bad was going to go down. Spencer wasn't that guy. Spencer wasn't even his handler. Bucky didn't understand what had happened, but tolerating things without understanding them was something he had a lot of practice at.

If Spencer had sat even a minute longer, Bucky might have got around to telling him, telling him how he remembered now. A string of cold days in Moscow on a surveillance op, the wet cold kind where the joint between the prosthetic arm and his shoulder ached deep and everlasting. Standing outside an office building, waiting and watching. A street cart with a little oven full of khachapuri. The nutty melted cheese hot in the flaky crust, keeping his hands warm, warming him from inside. Watching a woman buy one for her little boy, then scold him for burning his mouth on it. How Bucky had kept the feeling of warmth even through the next cryo wipe. That another time, on another Moscow op he'd caught the savory smell from a food van, and diverted from the op to steal one. It was funny to know that about himself, that even when they'd had him for decades, they couldn't ever totally stop him from _wanting_. 

If he kept sitting here thinking, Bucky was going to sink into the fear that he'd done something to make Spencer angry. The food in his stomach was feeling heavy, and his chest felt tight. He stood up abruptly and swung down off the roof, swinging off the window ledges below to drop to the ground. 

\----

"Eliot went down to the kitchen, made half an omelette, pulled it off the heat, tossed it in the garbage and headed out of the kitchen like his ass was on fire," Hardison said, "He was doing that thing with his lip, too. And James just jumped off the roof." 

He was sitting watching the security cameras while he ate lunch. Parker looked up from working on one of her rigs.

"Huh," she said.

"And," Hardison said, his voice rising in pitch, "the Black Widow just came into our brewpub and got herself seated at the bar."

Parker put down the rig and hopped over the back of the couch to look. Sure enough, that was the Widow at the bar. Not that most people would have recognized her, including apparently the hostess who seated her. But if you knew, you knew.

Parker looked at Hardison. Having James around hadn't accustomed him to superheroes showing up, if his glazed expression was anything to go by. Parker lightly punched him in the arm.

"I'm going to go see what she's here for," she said, "check if we've got other Avengers in the area?"

Hardison snapped out of his reverie at the suggestion that there might be more superheroes lurking. He pulled up his keyboard and started typing, grabbing feeds from cameras around the city.

\----

Parker slipped onto the barstool next to the Black Widow.

"Hi," she said, "you looked better as a redhead."

Parker knew if either of her partners heard her she'd get the full 'Parker, no!' looks. But people were easier to unlock if you threw them off balance. And if people were like locks, the Widow was more like a full Steranko system than a Glenn-Rieder.

"You must be Parker," the Widow said, turning her body slightly on her barstool and giving Parker a friendly smile.

Or Parker assumed most people would read it as friendly. If they didn't know who they were talking to. It was very, very good. As good as Sophie. Parker didn't smile back.

"Why are you here?" Parker asked.

"What, no small talk?" the Widow said, leaning confidentially toward Parker, "Nice job in Dubai in '11. How was it, jumping off the Burj?"

"You're here because of James," Parker replied, "well, if you've come because the Avengers need him for something, you can leave now. He's not a tool for you to use."

"Okay, no small talk," the Widow said. Her body language changed in an instant, from friendly to deadly. Parker thought of Hardison upstairs, suddenly relieved she'd left him there when she came down to confront the Widow. She almost wished Eliot were here, but then again, the Widow was one of the few people in the world he might lose a fight to.

"Yes," the Widow said, "I'm here about James. I'm not here because we need him. It's just interesting that when he went out to find himself, he made a beeline straight back to a killer like Spencer. I'm sure you understand my concern about bad people using James."

The tension dropped out of Parker and she gave a laugh that was mostly snort.

"Oh," she said, "this is one of those conversations where we're both on the same side but we're being stupid about it."

The Widow didn't look convinced, continuing to glare at Parker with icy eyes.

"You know what James does for us around here?" Parker said, "Dishes, mostly. Although right now, nothing, because he's a guest."

"Dishes," The Widow said, the word coming out as a flat, baffled statement.

"Dishes," Parker confirmed, "James showed up here a few years ago and he needed help. That's what we do, help people. You know that if you looked into us well enough to know about Dubai. You didn't come here to drag James back into battle, and we're not using him for bad crime reasons, so this conversation is pretty stupid."

The Widow's face had flattened back into a cool neutrality.

"I'd like to talk to him, then," she said.

"Oh, he's gone off on his bike for a sulk. He and Eliot were doing the-" she made chatting motions with her hands "feelings talk on the roof, and they both stomped off. You can wait for him here. Did you really want to know about the Burj Khalifa? It's the best jump I've ever made."

"I'd love to hear about it," the Widow said. It was entirely unclear to Parker whether she was stalling while they waited for James, or whether she was really interested.

The bartender came over and put a bowl of Parker's favorite bar snack mix next to them, and a pint of fruity seltzer Hardison kept on tap for her. 

"Thanks," she beamed, "and my friend needs another drink," she turned to the Widow, "You should try the Thief Juice, it's a mouth crime!"

\----  
Hardison flipped back and forth between monitors, watching the tense and then suddenly relaxed conversation in the bar, while also keeping an eye out for other suspicious movement in a ten block radius. Parker was keeping the Widow busy, but Hardison didn't know what would happen if Eliot got back and found her casually chatting with another assassin. He wasn't too happy when they got into dangerous situations without him. And James was in the wind too. 

Hardison picked up his phone for the third time since Parker had gone downstairs and hit redial on Eliot's number. The asshole wasn't answering - not unusual when he was taking a beat to straighten his mood out, but inconvenient now. Sighing, Hardison tapped the screen to pull up his other saved numbers. He looked down at Parker and the Widow in the bar again, and swept his eyes over the other surveillance cameras to catch any hint of James or Eliot returning. No dice. Hardison hit the connect button for the number right below Eliot's on his phone.

"C'mon, pick up."


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eliot isn't thrilled to find the Black Widow chatting up his team

Bucky made it back to the brewpub before Eliot did, but not by much. He'd just parked his bike in the back alley when the unmissable bright orange Dodge Charger drove past him to pull up round the back. Looked like they'd both had the idea to burn off some of the itch from digging at old wounds.

They did the manly nod and grunt as they walked into the building, neither ready to acknowledge the moments of insight between them earlier in the afternoon. 

Eliot saw Parker and the Widow sitting at the bar a moment before Bucky did. His body shifted into the poised mode of a predator about to pounce.

"Barnes," Eliot said, low and dangerous enough to send a shiver up Bucky's neck, "Get Parker out of here, now."

Parker looked ready to argue, but Bucky shook his head minutely and put an arm around her.

The Widow looked amused and unconcerned, which didn't seem to be helping Eliot's calm as Bucky hustled Parker away.

Eliot jerked his head toward the door to the alley, and Natasha followed him, all grace and ease.

In the back room, Parker flicked the cameras over so the one facing the alleyway was on the big screen. She shot a curious look at Hardison as he came out of the kitchen with a dishcloth tucked into the waistband of his jeans like a half-apron. A crime scene half-apron, covered in red splotches. 

"What's going on?" Hardison said.

"Showdown," Parker said. She turned to Bucky, "they're not actually going to fight are they?"

"No. See how they're squared off?" Bucky said, pointing at the big screen, "See the way that Spencer's got his weight balanced evenly on his feet, not on his back foot? And Natasha's got one hip cocked? Neither of them are ready to move. Looks like they've fought each other before, and they both know how badly that would go down. They'll go if they have to, but neither of them wants to."

"Well, good. But I had the Widow handled," Parker said sulkily.

"We know you did, mama," Hardison said, "But Eliot's gonna pull the protective act sometimes. That's just how it goes."

Down in the alley, Eliot and Natasha stood several feet apart, Eliot glowering while Natasha returned his look impassively. 

"That is kind of hot," Parker said, "annoying, but hot."

"Our man looks fine as hell when he's doing the whole Mister Punchy routine," Hardison agreed, reaching out to fist bump Parker.

\----  
The atmosphere around Eliot and the Widow was preternaturally still, like the eye of a storm, waiting for the wall of the hurricane to beat through in a wave of destruction.

Eliot broke the silence first. He wasn't in the mood to wait out the Black Widow.

"You know if you're going to come at my team you go through me," he said tightly.

"I heard Parker was the boss, and she certainly seems to know what she's doing," the Widow said with a provocative smirk.

Eliot's scowl deepened. He rolled his head from one side to the other, cracking his neck, and his hands moved into loose fists.

"Of course Parker knows what she's doing," he said, "I ain't saying she doesn't. I'm saying, after Phuket, I know what you can do. You don't get near my team without me there."

Natasha tilted her head to one side, a curious expression on it.

"I remember Phuket," she said, "I don't think either of us wants a repeat of that. But we're not supposed to be those people any more, you and I. I'm an Avenger, after all, and you're," she put her hand on her heart and batted her lashes, "one of the good guys, by all accounts."

Eliot shifted his weight. He crossed his arms and growled under his breath.

Natasha put up her hands.

"Okay, fine. I'm sorry I didn't approach you first," she said.

Eliot didn't look like he was appeased. Slow silence burned between them, Natasha's face an approximation of openness while Eliot's glare rested on it, as if waiting for something to be proven to him.

\---

"We're sure they're not going to fight right now," Hardison said nervously.

"They're almost done," Parker said, "Eliot's going to get bored of glowering soon and let the Widow say what she has to say. And something in the kitchen is burning."

Hardison yelped and ran.

"I wish the security system was wired with sound," Parker said to Bucky, "but every time I ask, Hardison says it's 'creepy' and 'an invasion of our guests' privacy,'" She snorted, "like he hasn't hacked JJ Abrams's emails for fun."

Bucky shrugged, not knowing who JJ Abrams was, but also not sure why Hardison would be opposed to having audio on their security system.

"Natasha will tell me what they said anyway," he said, "if you want me to ask."

Parker made a dismissive gesture.

"Blah blah I'm big tough Eliot Spencer and I'll beat you up if you go near my team," she said in a mock-gruff tone, before switching to a high pitched voice.

"I'm the Black Widow and I'm a superhero and you don't scare me, big mean man."

Bucky's mouth twitched into an amused smile.

"Sounds about right."

Hardison pulled a pan of slightly singed garlic bread out of the oven, grateful that Parker had noticed the smell before it could really burn. A large pot of water was boiling on the back burner of the stove, and a smaller pot of red sauce was simmering on one of the front burners. 

He thought back to his phone conversation. In case of emergencies: call Sophie. And the Black Widow and Eliot Spencer potentially squaring off against each other with no clue what side the Winter Soldier was going to take seemed like an emergency.

\------  
"You're panicking," Sophie said, "start with a few deep breaths. James is doing very well with you, and I don't believe that the Black Widow arriving is going to stir things up for him."

Hardison could hear Nate go off in the background, as Sophie cordially ignored him.

"And Eliot's superb at controlling his temper, so he may be unhappy with the situation, but he won't do anything precipitous. I may have crossed paths with Ms. Romanov some time ago, and she's _very_ good. She's unlikely to bring it to violence unless she has to."

Nate was very clearly demanding more information in the background, but Hardison tuned him out.

"You've... met the Black Widow?" he squeaked.

"In passing, one of those little things where one recognizes that another person is on the grift and then you either work together or risk mutually inconveniencing each other. We chose to work together. Natasha's very professional, and has excellent taste in handbags. If worst comes to worst, you can always tell her that the Baroness Van Der Graf sends regards."

"Daaamn," Hardison shook his head in admiring disbelief, " you legit worked with the Black Widow. And you never mentioned it."

"Oh, well one doesn't like to name drop," said Sophie Devereaux, who had never once hesitated to name drop if it was either useful or amusing.

Hardison stared at the monitor showing the camera where Parker and the Widow were now sitting closer than he was comfortable with, and most terrifyingly, giggling with each other.

"Meanwhile, what am I supposed to actually do with all these people? Even if they don't go for the guns and knives, it looks like the Widow's settling in for a gossip session with our girl, and Eliot is definitely going to go all Mister Punchy about that."

"Well, what else do you do with grown adults who are throwing their toys out of the pram? Feed them. Give them wine. Full, tipsy people are happy people. Now, I know that Eliot always has a few tins of San Marzano tomatoes on hand just in case..."

\----  
But listening to Sophie confidently explain how to make "a simple, divinely elegant little sauce" and actually executing on the concept were two different things. Not that Hardison didn't know his way around a kitchen for basic dishes, but using food to calm down a horde of cranky (former) assassins was nerve wracking. He'd had the sauce going before Eliot made it back to the pub, so that was fine, probably. Almost certainly. He'd just forgotten about the bread in the oven. It was only lightly blackened at the edges, and he scraped the burnt bits off rapidly into the sink. Parker and Barnes were quiet, so he assumed that things hadn't escalated downstairs.

"Hey," Hardison leaned across the counter, "James, would you please go out and tell the contestants in the world's dumbest staring contest that dinner is ready and they should get their asses in here?"

Parker looked across at Hardison, thoughtfully.

"You think Eliot will let the Widow come in for dinner?" she said.

"I think he's had plenty of time to decide if she's a real threat, and I think if James reminds him that the Widow is his friend and teammate, he'll get his act together."

Parker turned to Barnes.

"James?"

He shrugged, "I think if I tell him you said they could spar after dinner he'll agree."

Hardison tipped his head back, rolling his eyes and sighing.

"Y'all are such children."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So in the next chapter, dinner and sparring! I would apologize for the ungodly length of time between chapters but you know... 2020.


End file.
